Stooge
by Veritalias
Summary: [au][nonslash]What if Petunia was a little more cunning, Snape more vindictive, and Dumbledore more willing to accept whatever his spies told him? Slytherin Harry, and much more...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

* * *

"Get the mail, Dudley," Uncle Vernon said from behind his newspaper. Harry sighed, and stood up. He knew what Dudley's answer would be. 

To his surprise, Dudley grunted slightly and made his way out the door. Harry blinked. He'd fully expected Dudley to make Harry go do it.

Harry wandered back to the stove, peering in it to see if there were any scraps worth taking. No- there were no salvageable bits left. Pity. He'd not gotten enough to eat.

Dudley waddled back into the kitchen, looking for all the world like a rather fat pigeon, a letter clutched in his pudgy hand. "Look, Mum, the freak's got a letter!"

The teacup that Aunt Petunia had been holding shattered on the floor, and Uncle Vernon nearly ripped his newspaper in half in his sudden rush to put it down. "Give it here, Dudders," Petunia said, a minute tremor in her voice.

Harry, still standing by the stove, looked up in shock. "But– it's mine!" he protested loudly, though he knew that it would ultimately be futile to argue.

As he had suspected, Uncle Vernon's head snapped over to where he was standing, but instead of the brief scolding Harry had expected, the beefy man's face purpled in rage. "Get out, boy!" he yelled. "Out! Out!"

Harry stumbled backwards involuntarily, then glared at his uncle. "It's mine," he insisted angrily. He knew it wouldn't do any good to argue, but it was his! Something actually belonged to him! It wasn't an old castoff from Dudley- whoever had mailed that letter had sent it to Harry Potter. And he wanted it back.

Uncle Vernon stood so quickly that his chair fell over backwards to the ground. Harry, who had been frozen in place by the murderous look in his uncle's eyes, bolted at the sudden noise.

He slowed to a walk once out of sight distance of the house. His fright at his uncle quickly turned into resentment, and a little bit of shame. He should've insisted that his uncle give him the letter. He should've held his ground. He should've... .

Obviously, the mention of the letter had aroused violent feelings in his aunt and uncle. But why would that be the case? No one had ever written him a letter before- mainly because Harry had no one to write him a letter.

He kicked at the sidewalk as he walked, scowling at the ground in thought. He never noticed the tabby cat that watched him disapprovingly from the shelter of a tree branch.

* * *

"Vernon!" Petunia hissed as soon as her son had left the room, having lost his fascination with the mysterious post and gone off in search of something more interesting. "It's _that letter_- what do we do! Look- it's even got where he sleeps! How do they know where he sleeps? Are they following us? Watching us?" 

"Ignore it," he advised. "Maybe they'll leave him if they think he isn't a freak like the rest of them."

"But he is a freak!" Petunia said, and winced as her voice cracked. "Surely they'll have more... freakish... ways of tracking such abnormalities- it's how they managed to steal away my sister and convert her into such a heathen!" She paused, then, and her eyes narrowed slightly. "But, Vernon... do we really want him to stay here, with us? Do we really want to have that freak around for the rest of our lives?"

Vernon shuddered. "Of course not!" he blustered, but frowned thoughtfully. "But I don't want him learning any more of that freakishness, either! We swore when we took him in that we'd stamp that freakishness out of him!"

"I..." Petunia trailed off as a new glint appeared in her eyes. "Vernon... I think I have an idea..."

* * *

_To Whom it May Concern,_

_We regret to inform you that while Harry Potter will indeed be attending your school in these upcoming years, there are some character flaws of which you may not be aware. He is at times rather ill tempered, and prone to flights of fancy... he is wont to throw rather explosive temper tantrums if he does not get his way... We have found him time and again bullying our own son, Dudley, and threatening him with his magic._

_We are sorry that we could not have done a better job of raising Harry, but he is an uncooperative and inconsiderate child... We thought it to be only fair to give you some warning of what you may soon be subjected to._

_We hope that you will be able to mold him into a humble and functional member of society in place of the childish, arrogant boy he is. Again, we apologize, but we have done our best and no more can be expected of us._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Vernon and Petunia Dursley_

* * *

Harry was roused from his sleep by an insistent shaking. He opened his eyes to see the annoyed face of Uncle Vernon hovering before him. 

The young boy yelped in alarm and flinched back. Uncle Vernon only glared at him and snapped, "Up with you, boy! It's almost time for breakfast- Petunia's been calling for the past ten minutes!"

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as Uncle Vernon slammed the door to his cupboard, but then sat bolt-upright. Ten minutes- Aunt Petunia would be furious!

He quickly threw on the closest clothes at hand- the dirt-and-food-stained shirt and baggy pants with rips at the knees he had worn the day before, and rushed into the kitchen as soon as he could.

To his surprise, Aunt Petunia had already made breakfast, and she shot him a look that seemed to be half-angry and half-triumphant as he entered the kitchen. Harry started slightly- what cause had she to give him such a look?- but he kept him mouth shut from years of experience.

She wordlessly handed him two pieces of slightly-burnt toast, and turned her back on him as she stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. Whatever had been written in that letter, Harry mused, had been quickly forgotten. Even though he'd run out of the house that day when he'd first gotten it, Aunt Petunia had done nothing but send Uncle Vernon the odd smug glance. She hadn't even scolded him for not washing the dishes.

She was acting rather strangely, Harry reflected. She had hardly spoken to him since the letter had arrived. Maybe it was, indeed, a good omen.

He was licking the last of the crumbs off of his fingers when the doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon set his paper down, and turned to Harry. "Get in Dudley's second bedroom now, boy, and don't touch anything!"

Harry was up the stairs in a flash. He heard, vaguely, the sound of the door opening, and Aunt Petunia's voice drifted briefly up the stairs- "Would you care for a spot of tea, Mister Snape?"- before he closed the door.

He flopped down on the old bed in the corner- abandoned when Dudley had complained that is was 'too lumpy'- and rubbed at his foot (he had stubbed his toe on one of Dudley's old broken toys).

Why had he been sent here? Harry had to wonder. Usually, he was confined to his cupboard whenever the Dursleys had company. They usually showed the upstairs of the house to any and all guests...

What if this person wanted to see him? Harry frowned. But why would anyone want to see him? He was nobody...

He sat up suddenly. Maybe the Mister Snape that Aunt Petunia had been talking to was here to take him away! That would explain why he had been sent to this room in particular. He crossed his arms and frowned at his filthy clothing. If he had known that that would be the case, he would have dressed better!

He didn't have time to move before the door was kicked open, and a dark, sullen-looking man stepped in. He cast Harry a cursory glance, and was obviously not impressed. "So this," he drawled, "is the legendary _Harry Potter_." The man paused, and looked down his long nose at the boy. "How... disappointing."

The man stepped fully into the room, revealing himself to the boy on the bed. He was tall and pale-skinned, with a nose that bore more than a passing resemblance to a vulture's beak. Lank strands of greasy flack hair framed his sallow face. Harry was surprised to see that the man was wearing what appeared to be a strange sort of long black bathrobe.

He didn't get the chance to comment, as the man surveyed the room critically and was obviously displeased with what he found. "I take it these are the results of the 'explosive temper tantrums' you mentioned in the letter?" he asked.

Aunt Petunia nodded shakily. "Yes- and he's changed his school-teachers' hair green whenever he feels they don't treat him well enough. We've tried to correct him of these flaws, but I simply don't know what more to do, Mister Snape!"

Harry flushed red at the lies he was hearing. He opened his mouth to argue, but the man glared at him coldly. Knowing a warning when he saw one, Harry shut his mouth with a nearly-audible click and settled for glaring at his Aunt in mortification.

How dare she tell such lies about him! He fumed silently, uncrossing his arms and clenching his fists at his sides. He had only turned his teacher's hair green when she had purposely favored Dudley over him, but that had been a freakish accident, one of the ones that no one was supposed to know about! And since when had Aunt Petunia tried to 'correct his flaws?'

"What better can you expect of him?" Mister Snape asked, sneering at the boy. "His parents were just as arrogant as he seems to be- I believe it runs in the family. There could not have been hope for him, not from the beginning."

"Lily was changed after she met that Potter boy," Petunia said tearfully. "She used to be so sweet and kind, but then they got married and they acted terribly towards Vernon and myself! I've caught the boy tormenting my own son Dudley from time to time- but I believe I mentioned that in my letter."

Harry was confused- what letter was she talking about? Did this have something to do with the mysterious post that had been addressed to him?- but both Aunt Petunia and this Mister Snape had insulted his parents, and he could not let that pass by unnoticed.

"My parents–" he began hotly, but Mister Snape cut him off once more.

"I can see what you mean," Mister Snape said, "And I believe that there was nothing you could possibly do for the boy. But do not worry- I shall tell the other teachers to watch the boy at Hogwarts. This shocking behavior he has shown will not be tolerated."

"Thank you," Petunia sniffed. "I cannot tell you how much this means to me, or how long and how hard I have struggled to change his attitude in any way. I hope that he will, at your school become the adult he was meant to be instead of the petty child he is."

"It was not your fault," Mister Snape said, his beetle-black eyes glinting with some emotions that Harry could not identify. "He is a disobedient brat, that much I can tell from just meeting him. There was nothing you could do to help him. He will be receiving no special favors at Hogwarts, Mrs. Dursley, I shall make sure of it."

_No more._ Harry was shocked, and hurt at the suggestions and harsh words that had been exchanged. He blinked back tears at the hurt that he felt. Surely it could not be true- to be judged by a stranger before they even knew him!

"And a credible actor, as well," Mister Snape said. "Had I not been expecting something of the sort, I might think it real, but I can see that he is merely devious. My goodness– what a spiteful, petty child, Mrs Dursley, and through no fault of your own."

"Shall we adjourn downstairs?" Aunt Petunia asked, a sugary-sweet smile pasted upon her face. "I only wanted to give you a taste of what the boy would be like, and I believe that neither of us would rather be in his presence for much longer."

"I would be most happy," the man said, brushing imaginary dust off the front of his strange bathrobe.

No more! Harry screamed internally. Still blinking back tears, he jumped to his feet. "It's not true– I didn't– I'm not like that–"

But the adults had kept going, seemingly united in their apparent hate of all things Harry Potter. He heard the door slam shut, the sound echoed through the room.

Harry gritted his teeth together in impotent rage, but could not help but feel as if something had been stolen from him. Surely they would not take him now, not after Aunt Petunia had woven a web of lies so thick and strong?

And even if he did go to this school- Hogwarts, if he remembered clearly enough what the odd Mister Snape had said- they would all be poisoned against him. They would be likely to judge against him as Mister Snape had, because if Mister Snape was a representative of the school as Harry thought he was, would they not more readily believe their colleague's words?

He moved over to the window, feeling his righteous anger sweep away as cold abandonment replaced it. The sky was grey and cloudy, and the air was strangely cold for such a summer's day. Harry sighed explosively.

Now that they had gone, he had time to reflect over their words, but he felt himself loathe to think more on what Mister Snape had said on his parents. But– surely Mister Snape would have had to have known them in order to know what they were like! Harry straightened up, then slumped as he remembered exactly what Mister Snape had said of them.

His parents could not be that bad. They couldn't! Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were only jealous, because his parents were twice the people that his Aunt and Uncle could ever be. But to have the testimony of another person who had never before met his Aunt agree...

Harry felt his beliefs shatter. His parents had loved him, and each other– hadn't they? They weren't that awful, they weren't! It was all some mistake.

Yes, that was it, he thought. It was a mistake- Mister Snape would be back tomorrow, and he would take him away, and he would make Aunt Petunia stop telling her horrible lies...

Harry stumbled over to the bed and was asleep within seconds.

* * *

_Albus,_

_The boy is a menace. He is as arrogant as his father was. He is sullen, bullies his cousin, wears rags to make a statement, and is as cunning as a snake. He is devious, Albus, so devious that I almost thought he was not, in fact, acting._

_You might not want to expose the boy to the public just yet. You do not want the wizarding world's expectations of the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to be crushed, now do you? I would suggest having Minerva buy him his school things, and buying his wand when the term begins, because there will be less people around._

_Albus, I realize that you may not want to believe this. Please trust me to know my job, this time around._

_Yours,_

_Severus Snape_

* * *

Mister Snape was not back the next day, nor the next, and Harry quickly gave up hope of ever seeing again. After the lies that Aunt Petunia had told him, there was no way that he would be accepted into that school. 

He found it odd that Uncle Vernon seemed mellower than usual, and that Aunt Petunia had not stopped shooting him triumphant stares, but Dudley had been acting no different than normal, and such concerns were quickly driven to the back of his brain.

He did not even think it odd that Aunt Petunia received an enormous package in the mail, or that she stowed it in Dudley's second bedroom with strict orders not to go near it. It was none of Harry's business, and he had long ago learned to respect that.

It was late into August that Aunt Petunia dragged him into the kitchen and into a chair. Harry had not struggled much- it never worked, and he would most likely need that energy later. On the table was the odd package.

Uncle Vernon was out golfing with his colleagues, and Dudley was out with Piers Polkiss, most likely beating up some poor little child. Aunt Petunia and he were alone in the house, and Harry felt inexplicably nervous.

Aunt Petunia gestured towards the package. "These are your school supplies," she snapped at him curtly, almost as if to say the words would leave a foul taste in her mouth. "You'll be leaving in two weeks. Don't ask me any questions, and get that– thing– into the cupboard before someone notices it!"

She stalked out of the room, but paused in the hallway to call, "I'm going to Mrs Figg's house for tea– so don't you dare bother me!"

Harry waited until he had heard the front door slam shut before he turned his gaze to the package. It was a rather inconspicuous-looking box apart from its size, wrapped in serviceable brown paper that had quite obviously been torn open- presumably by Aunt Petunia- and hastily taped closed once more.

It was the first time that he could recall being sent something in the post– and even now, Aunt Petunia had opened it before he could even look at it. Harry quashed the mild stirring of resentment in the pit of his stomach– it would do him no good.

He ripped open the paper and threw it to the side, excitement taking the place of resentment. He would be going to Pigwarts! Surely, this would be much better than going to Stonewall High, where Dudley had said the teachers were ten-foot monsters.

Then again, Harry had long before learned not to listen to what Dudley told him. More often than not, it was said to scare him.

Harry stared at the odd-looking trunk on the table. What sort of school was this, that it would send its students a trunk?

He opened it cautiously, frowning at the contents. There were piles of what looked like clothes, and stacks of books and other piles of what looked like completely random things. Harry glanced incredulously at what seemed to be a bird feather. Where exactly was this school, anyway?

He reached out to take the book on top of the pile, but snatched his hand back before he had touched it. If he made a mess in the kitchen, Aunt Petunia would be mad. No- worse than mad, she'd be furious.

He closed the trunk once more, and attempted to lift one end of it. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as he had expected. It was, however, much too heavy for him to lift, so Harry settled for half-dragging it all the way to his cupboard.

There wasn't much room inside anymore, and Harry reckoned he'd be sleeping on top of the trunk for the two weeks until he was leaving, but that was okay by Harry's reckoning. He would be leaving Privet Drive!

Maybe the people at this school would be kind. Maybe he would have his own bed there... Maybe they would see how he was being treated, and save him from the Dursleys...

Yes, the people would have him. They had to. Surely they wouldn't leave him here, where he was so mistreated...

Harry smiled. Yes, of course! And he would soon be free.

* * *

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

* * *

Harry knew it had been two weeks later by the series of marks he'd drawn in the dust in the corner of the cupboard. He was woken up early- just how early, he wasn't sure, because he had no way of telling time, and he wasn't about to ask one of his relatives. 

He pulled on his clothes- jeans and a baggy t-shirt, because he wasn't about to walk into a train station filled with normal people while wearing his wizard's robes.

He was a wizard. Harry wasn't quite sure if this was true, but what other explanation was there? The time he'd grown back his hair after Aunt Petunia had cut it horribly short, not to mention the infamous snake incident...

He'd stayed up late some nights reading the books he'd been given, and carefully examining all of the queer-looking instruments in his trunk. There were so many interesting things in this new world... It was utterly amazing! He hadn't gotten to read much, though, because it had been dark in his cupboard, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had said that they didn't want any of "that freakishness" out where any decent person could see it.

It seemed a great while later that Uncle Vernon yanked open the door to the cupboard and dragged Harry into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia was waiting to give him a lecture.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about us," she spat venomously. "You'll have to return for the summers, and if we get any letters from _your kind_, you won't be going back next year, do you understand?"

Harry nodded mutely.

Two hours later, his trunk had been stowed in the trunk of Uncle Vernon's car, and Harry was well on his was to freedom. He let his head rest against the cool glass of the window, and began to dream about how wonderful his life would be from now on...

If he told everyone about the Dursleys, contrary to Aunt Petunia's warnings, then he wouldn't _have_ to go back! So her threats were completely unfounded... Harry entertained himself with thoughts of magic for the rest of the trip.

All too soon, Uncle Vernon had pulled the door open, causing the distracted boy to half-fall out of the car as his support was removed. It was half-past ten, and they were at King's Cross Station, Harry noted with interest. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's big, heavy trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station.

Harry thought this was unusually kind until Uncle Vernon turned to him with a nasty grin on his face, and handed Harry a small ticket. "There you go, boy. Platform nine — platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?"

Harry glanced down at the ticket, then back at the two stations. Platform Nine and Three Quarters? "Where–"

"Not my problem boy– have a good term!" Uncle Vernon left with an even nastier smile, and Harry could see his uncle laughing as the car drove away.

Now what was he going to do? Harry wondered. He had no idea of what to do, or even of how he was supposed to act around these wizard people. He pushed his cart over to platform nine, and then platform ten, but he was no evidence of wizards.

With a gusty sigh, Harry parked his cart against the wall between the two stations, and leaned back. He might as well wait fo–

And then he had fallen _through the wall_, and was staring at a whole other world. Harry had enough presence of mind to grab his cart and pull that through as well. The wall felt vaguely like some sort of syrupy substance, but he shook the feeling off. There was no use in asking how it had happened.

This was _magic_.

A crimson steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock. Harry looked around himself with wonder. This must be platform Nine and Three Quarters.

There were people everywhere, talking to each other and to adults- Harry noticed owls in cages on some students' trunks, and cats twining about students' feet. He wondered, briefly, whether he'd be allowed to have a pet too, but brushed it off. Mister Snape had said that he wouldn't be receiving any "special favors," and he wasn't sure if this would count.

Harry turned away, and began to search for an empty compartment. There was one near the end of the train, and he stowed his trunk in a corner, though not before he'd dropped it on his feet several times each. He pulled out a book, and settled back to do some reading before he got to school.

The magical world was as baffling as it was fascinating. There were so many different things he didn't know about, and he didn't know if anyone would be willing to tell him. He couldn't wait to see Hogwarts!

"Hello?" A voice said.

Harry looked up to see an older girl standing in front of him. He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes in order to take a batter look at her- and was surprised to hear her gasp in shock.

"You're– you're Harry Potter!" she whispered reverently. "Oh my god! You're Harry Potter- I've met Harry Potter! Ooh, I can't wait until Penny hears about this!"

And the girl rushed out of the compartment. Harry blinked in surprise. "Well, it was nice to meet you too," he told the empty air in front of him.

The train began to move, and Harry settled back once more facing the window. The door banged open once more- it was a gangly red-haired boy. "Anyone sitting there?" he asked, indicating the seat next to Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

"Go ahead," said Harry, and the boy took a seat.

"Ron Weasley," the boy said, and held out his hand.

Harry shook his hand. "Harry Potter."

"No, really?" Ron gasped. "Have you really got– you know–"

He gestured towards Harry's forehead. Harry swept his bangs back once more, and Ron leaned forward and gawked at the strangely shaped mark.

"D'you– d'you remember anything?" Ron asked eagerly.

Harry shook his head. "Not a thing."

"Wow," Ron said. "I've wanted to meet you for ages, you know?"

"You have?" Harry asked politely. He personally couldn't imagine why anyone would want to meet him.

"Of course!" Ron exclaimed. "Everyone's heard of Harry Potter, of course! And the way you defeated You-Know-Who... Are you sure you don't remember everything?"

"Nothing," said Harry truthfully.

Silence reigned for a time, as Ron watched as farms and fields full of cows and sheep sped past the window. Harry had turned back to his book, but found himself unable to concentrate. Who exactly was this You-Know-Who person that he had supposedly defeated? He briefly considered asking Ron- but Harry had been told all of his life not to ask questions, and he wasn't about to start now, no matter how curious he was.

A smiling woman pushed a trolley though the compartment door at about half-past twelve, and beamed at the two of them. "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Harry shook his head mutely, ashamed of not having any wizard money to spend, and out of the corner of his eye watched Ron do the same. The trolley continued, and Harry suddenly remembered that he'd not had breakfast this morning– he'd been too excited.

He tried to ignore the pain in his stomach, concentrating instead on the words in his book. He noted idly that Ron had brought sandwiches, and felt a vague sense of jealously build up in his stomach.

Twice a boy came into the compartment, looking for a toad, and both times Harry and Ron told him that they'd not seen any. "Probably a Hufflepuff, that one" Ron said condescendingly. "Bit of a duffer, isn't he?"

Harry nodded absently.

"All my brothers are Gryffindors," Ron continued blithely. "I hope I'm one too– I guess Ravenclaw wouldn't be that bad, but imagine if I was in Slytherin!" Ron gave a rather theatrical shudder. "That was You-Know-Who's house, after all- but I bet you already know that. After all, you're Harry Potter."

An awkward silence descended, and Harry found himself turning pages loudly in a futile attempt to relieve the resounding quiet.

He was almost relieved when the door banged open once more, but it wasn't the toadless boy again this time. Three boys entered– a blonde, pale-looking boy flanked by two other boys.

"Is it true?" The blonde boy asked. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment."

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Their positions on either side of the pale boy made them look like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, as he noticed where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron snorted slightly, and Draco Malfoy turned to look at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who _you_ are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it. "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," he said coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

"Say that again," Ron challenged, his face as red as his hair.

But Draco Malfoy only turned to Harry and sneered. "I'll be watching you," he threatened, and then the three interlopers swept out of the compartment.

"What was that all about?" Ron asked Harry, but Harry didn't have the heart to tell Ron that he didn't have any idea, either.

* * *

"_Hmm. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes– and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?_" 

Not Slytherin, not Slytherin!

"_Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You would be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness– no doubt about it, you belong in _

SLYTHERIN!"

* * *

Harry had always known that his Aunt Petunia hated him. True, she had never starved him or beat him, but she had forced him to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. And then she had ruined his every chance at happiness, and it seemed that Hogwarts had not escaped her machinations. 

The Slytherins had gone to their common room, located in an area of the castle that Harry presumed was the dungeons. It was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several high-backed chairs were situated around it.

The older years filed up the stairs, but all of the first-years hung back in the common room. Not a half a minute later, Snape himself swept into the room, looking for all the world like a great overgrown bat.

The lecture the Slytherins had received was mostly along the lines of the lectures Harry had heard from Aunt Petunia for all of his life- behave well, and don't make a fool of yourself because then you'll make _us_ look bad.

What Harry hadn't expected were the piercing glares his Head of House was sending his way. The other first years had apparently picked up on the man's obvious malice towards Harry, because they edged away from him slightly in an attempt to keep the man's wrath off of themselves.

It seemed that the upper-years had picked up on it as well, or they had their own personal grudges against Harry, because he found himself shunned and ignored the next day. He got to breakfast late- he'd lost his way twice, and no one seemed willing to help him to the Great Hall.

Snape was already there, handing out schedules, and he sneered at Harry before dropping his schedule in his cup of juice deliberately. "The Headmaster would like to see you in his office after breakfast on Friday, Potter," he said, and continued on.

Harry did his best to rescue his schedule from the thick orange-colored juice, and partially succeeded. If worst came to worst, he thought glumly, he could always follow the other first-years– surely they would know where to go.

He squinted at the paper. Was that... Transfiguration? Well, that was what it appeared to be, at least. The room number was too blurred to tell, though. Harry watched as Malfoy walked in through the doors, paused, sneered at Harry, and then took a seat as far away as possible. Crabbe and Goyle came in a step behind and immediately sat on either side of the blond boy.

Harry poked at his food with his fork, all the while keeping an eye on Malfoy. The blond came from a magical family- surely he would be able to make his way through the school. He did not know the other first years so well. Most of them did their best to keep away from him, anyway.

Malfoy stood, abruptly, and motioned to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry waited until five seconds after they had left the Great Hall, and then rushed out after them. He didn't want Malfoy to know that he was following him– people took offense to that, as he had learned the hard way.

* * *

Transfiguration, as Harry soon learned, would be harder than he had expected. He hadn't thought that doing magic would be easy– nothing in his life had ever been easy– but he hadn't thought it would be very hard, either. 

Professor McGonagall gave the class a stern talking-to in their first lesson. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. The class of Slytherins didn't seem to be all that impressed. From the whispers Harry could hear, magic was commonplace in their homes. Such a display was, while not quite ordinary, at least expected on their first day of class.

He soon realized that they would not be changing furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a complicated notes, Professor McGonagall came around and gave everyone but Harry a match, and instructed to turn it into a needle.

"Potter," she said to Harry, "The Headmaster has told me of your... special circumstances. He told me to inform you that you will be receiving your wand on Friday. Because you cannot perform magic without a wand, you may instead read up on the theory."

She then dropped a heavy-looking book upon his desk, and left to check up on the other students' progress.

This was not just an isolated occurrence. It seemed that all of his teachers had been told of his "special circumstances." Professor Flitwick, who taught charms, had seemed disappointed at this, but Harry could not see why. Even in Astronomy, where they studied the midnight skies, the teacher informed him that he would not be receiving any special treatment, and that just because he didn't have a wand didn't mean that he could just slack off.

By the time Friday came around, Harry was heartily sick of theory. He had watched his classmates perform magic, and he was quite eager to be able to finally be able to participate in his classes.

He hurriedly ate two pieces of toast, and rushed out of the Great Hall, before he realized that he had no idea where the Headmaster's office was, or where the Headmaster could be found.

"This," he moaned, "is _not_ my day."

* * *

The ugly caretaker sneered at the boy he was dragging into the office. "So what can I do with him, Headmaster? Breaking the rules, he was– claimed he was looking for your office, so I figured I'd show him_exactly_ where it was." 

Harry caught the dislike in his tone, and fixed his gaze sullenly on the floor. It wasn't his fault that no one had been willing to show him the way.

"I'm sorry, Argus, but I had indeed asked Mister Potter to meet me in my office after breakfast. I believe he might indeed have been lost. He does not yet know his way around the castle."

The caretaker bared his teeth in anger, and put Harry in mind of the unpleasant-looking cat he had seen prowling by the man's side. "Fine," he spat with ill-grace, and stormed out.

Harry looked up in wonder at the one person who seemed willing to standup for him. Perhaps his luck was improving at last!

"Are you ready then, my boy?" the Headmaster asked, a twinkle in his eye. "There's a pot of Floo powder in the pot over the mantel– ah, but I can see from your confusion that you have never used the Floo Network before, now have you? No matter, then– just watch and do as I do."

Harry watched, bemused, as the Headmaster took a pinch of greenish powder from a pot and threw it into the fireplace. What was he–

Then the flames turned green, and the Headmaster walked _into the fire_ and shouted "Diagon Alley!" Harry stood, frozen in spot, for another minute, before he rushed to copy the Headmaster's actions.

He tumbled through what felt like miles and miles of sooty fire-places, until he at last fell face-forward into the middle of a busy store.

The Headmaster waited for Harry to dust himself off before they headed out. "You may have noticed," the Headmaster said quietly, "that all of your classmates have already gotten their wands. Normally you too would have purchased yours along with your school supplies, but Professor Snape decided that it would be best for you not to be revealed to the wizarding world so soon."

"Why?" Harry asked, a little hurt.

"Why, due to the infamy of which I am sure your Aunt has told you." the Headmaster said, "the wizarding world might have reacted rather... explosively to your presence here. Nothing adverse has happened so far, but I felt it wise to take precautions. You can never be overprepared, don't you agree?"

In reality, Aunt Petunia had told Harry nothing of the sort, but he nodded along with the Headmaster's words, not wanting to appear ignorant in front of such an acclaimed man.

"Ah!" said the Headmaster, as they stopped in front of a shop bearing peeling gold letters over the door that proclaimed it to be Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

The inside of the shop was tiny, and completely bare apart from a single spindly chair upon which the Headmaster motioned for Harry to be seated. "Mr. Ollivander will be here shortly, Harry– I have business to attend in the Alley. I will return."

A tinkling bell rang somewhere as the door opened and shut behind the Headmaster. Harry sighed softy and looked around. There were thousands upon thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling, and the very dust and silence seemed somehow magical.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped, and quickly got up off of the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before him, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," Harry said awkwardly.

"Ah, yes," said the man. "Harry Potter– but I thought I'd be seeing you sooner. The Hogwarts term has already begun, and you do not yet have your wand."

"They deemed it unnecessary for me to be 'revealed to the wizarding world so soon'," Harry said, a trifle bitterly.

They should not have kept him from his birthright, he thought with a touch of resentment. The wizarding world might not have been ready to see him yet, because of this fame- or infamy, as the Headmaster had put it- that he apparently had, but those who knew of him should have disguised him, or something, so that he could have seen magic before! Surely, there would have been a way to get him in unnoticed.

"Hold strong," the wandmaker advised slowly. "There are dark times ahead, and I fear–"

The door that slammed open cut off whatever Mr Ollivander was about to say next. The Headmaster stood framed in the doorway, blue eyes twinkling. "I trust that I am not interrupting anything?" he asked, a trifle coldly, and the look he sent to Mr Ollivander was one of warning.

"No, not at all," said Mr Ollivander mistily. "Ah, Albus Dumbledore. I remember you- thirteen and a half inches, phoenix feather core– but that was your first wand, was it not?"

The Headmaster nodded. "Yes, but it is young Harry's time to receive his own, not for him to hear what his ancestors have received before him." The headmaster seemed relieved, and it made Harry wonder.

"Of course," Mr Ollivander said, and pulled down a box. He withdrew a wand, and Harry took it almost reverently. "Try this– Beechwood and dragon heartstring."

Harry waved the wand, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try–"

Harry tried, but he had barely raised the wand when it too was snatched from him.

"No, no– here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair.

"Perhaps," the Headmaster interrupted Mr Ollivander as he searched the shelves, "Perhaps you might try a more... special wand."

Mr Ollivander looked up sharply at the Headmaster, and then recognition and resentment dawned in his eyes. "Of course," he said sharply, and reached up to pull a box from near the top of the shelf. "I wonder– yes, why not– unusual combination– holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand, and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, and brought it swishing down through the dusty air, and a stream of silver and dark purple sparks shot from the end like fireworks. Harry found himself grinning broadly. He turned to the Headmaster in exaltation, but found Professor Dumbledore watching him with a small frown that disappeared so fast Harry wondered if he'd been imagining it.

"Curious," Mr Ollivander said as he put Harry's wand back in its box and wrapped it in brown paper. "Curious... curious..."

"What's curious?" Harry began to ask, but the Headmaster interrupted him half-way through his question.

"How many Galleons is it, Mr Ollivander?" the Headmaster asked politely.

"Seven," the elderly man said, and busied himself putting away the spare wands, still muttering. "Curious... curious..."

Harry didn't want to leave, not until he had found out what the wandmaker had meant, but he hadn't any choice as the Headmaster all but dragged him back onto the noisy street, and back to the fireplace that they had Flooed from.

* * *

Harry stood outside of the door, shivering slightly but uncertain whether or not to go in. He really, really didn't want to interrupt Mister– no, Professor Snape in the middle of a lesson, seeing how the man had acted around him before, but he had no choice. 

The Headmaster had sent him off immediately, and hadn't answered any of the questions Harry had asked him. And then he had gotten lost once more on his way to the dungeons. He resolved to himself to find a map of Hogwarts as soon as possible.

Harry steeled himself, and knocked cautiously on the door. "Enter," Snape's voice barked. Harry winced– that was not a very welcoming voice– and stepped in.

"Potter," the Potions master sneered. "Find yourself a partner. The directions are on the board."

Harry stood still for a moment at the man's blatant dislike for Harry, but came inside quickly and shut the door. He looked around the class, but there was only one person without a partner. He took the seat quickly, not wanting to antagonize the Potions Master further.

The dark-haired boy he'd been partnered with squeaked in fear at he sat down. Harry looked at the boy in shock. Why on earth would the boy be scared of _him_? Before he could think on the incident, something squishy impacted with the back of his head. Harry looked down at the eye of newt that now lay on the floor, and then back at the redhead seated behind him.

Ron scowled. "What're you playing at, Potter?"

Harry blinked at Ron. "What?" That certainly hadn't been what he had expected.

"What're you playing at? Getting sorted into Slytherin, for one! I shouldn't even be talking to you– you're one of them, now."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, baffled. "What's wrong with Slytherin?"

"You're all a bunch of slimy snakes, that's what! Bill and Charlie and Fred and George warned me about you all– said to stay away from the Slytherins if I didn't like being hexed!" Ron paused, glanced around the room in apparent worry, and lowered his voice once more. "You heard what the Sorting Hat said, didn't you? That Slytherins are cunning, and clever– I heard there wasn't a Slytherin born that didn't go dark."

"But–" Harry started,, then stopped and thought a bit. "But you met me earlier, didn't you? You seemed to like me well enough then, why does what house I am change anything?"

It certainly made no sense from Harry's point of view. He didn't like Ron any less now that they were in different houses. He'd be willing to call the redhead his friend– hadn't he stood up to Malfoy for him?

He said as much to Ron, and the redhead scowled even more fiercely. "Trying to get on my good side, so you could backstab be as soon as possible is more like it!" he hissed. "You didn't change Potter– the Sorting Hat only showed me how you really are!"

Harry drew back, insulted, and turned to the potion that he was supposed to be making. From the instructions on the board, he could see that it was meant to be a simple potion to cure boils. It certainly looked easy enough, like cooking one of Aunt Petunia's dinners...

"What's the next step?" he asked the boy next to him. The boy raised a pale and shaking hand to point at the board. Harry frowned. That wasn't going to help! He picked up a dried nettle and fingered it meditatively.

"Have you crushed the snake fangs yet?" he asked the boy again, but he got no answer.

Then the potion bubbled, hissed, and the cauldron melted into a twisted blob. Clouds of acid green smoke filled the air. Ron gave a half-shout of "Potter!" and danced out of the way of the still-hissing potion that was making its way across the all-Gryffindor half of the potions classroom. The potion burned holes in people's shoes as it passed.

"One point from Gryffindor," Snape said coolly from his desk, not even bothering to look up.

Harry dropped the dried nettle back onto the desk as if he'd been stung, and tried to ignore Ron's furious glare. He seemed to have incurred the combined wrath of the Gryffindor half of the room, while the Slytherins, who'd had ample time to get onto their stools before the potion made its way towards them, looked positively gleeful. Harry sighed and buried his head in his hands

* * *

. 

Harry slumped in one of the uncomfortable high-backed chairs in the Common Room. His chair was close enough to the fire to catch its glow, but far enough away from all the other chairs. No one particularly wanted to be around him at the moment, branded by Snape's disdain as he was.

The school didn't trust him, that much was certain. None of his teachers liked him, besides maybe Quirrel, but that wasn't saying much at all.

Professor McGonagall was fair, at least, but she kept sending him mournful little glances whenever she saw him. Professor Flitwick had squeaked in fear the first time he read Harry's name off of the attendance list. Professor Sprout and the rest of the teachers did their best to avoid him, and Professor Snape quite obviously hated Harry's guts.

Harry wished for a moment that he knew whatever Aunt Petunia had told the school. It must have been bad, whatever it was, to make people avoid him like this–

"Potter."

Harry looked up at the icy drawl and into the sneering face of Draco Malfoy. "Yes?" he asked warily.

"We have noticed lately," said Malfoy, gesturing at Crabbe and Goyle, whom Harry hadn't even realized were there, "that you seem to be having some difficulties settling into Slytherin House, and we have decided to offer you a truce."

Harry watched them for a moment, considering. They had insulted Ron that day on the train– but Ron was no longer speaking to him, was he? Harry nodded slowly, still on guard. "What kind of truce?"

"My father is on the board of governors," Malfoy said haughtily. "And he will do whatever I ask of him. You would have nothing to fear from Snape, if you had me to protect you."

"I'm not so sure I need protection," said Harry, but he could see Malfoy's point all too clearly. The blond had power, he could see that, and he would share in that power if he was on Malfoy's side.

Malfoy sniffed at him. "Don't be a fool, Potter. You have no one to protect you, a fool could see it. You don't even know any spells! The Slytherins will respect me. I can protect you from them."

Harry hadn't really noticed any overt hostility among his Housemates, but looking back he could recall several hate-filled glances... there were obviously some things he didn't know about. And Malfoy could protect him from that.

"Alright," he said finally. "Truce." He held out a hand, and Malfoy shook it firmly.

"Truce."

"So," Harry said, sizing Malfoy up. "Friends?"

Malfoy laughed, a high-pitched sound that Harry thought did not in the least become the image of cold superiority that the blond projected. "Friends?" he asked, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "No, you rejected my offer of friendship while on the train. You can be another bodyguard of sorts."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, a feeling of dread settling around him. "What are you talking about?"

"It's simple," Malfoy said, clearly enjoying the turn of conversation. "I protect you from Slytherin House and Snape, and you protect me from anyone who wants to do me harm. Is that so difficult to understand?"

"No," Harry said, and swallowed nervously. Just what exactly had he just gotten himself into?

"Good," said Malfoy. "Now follow me- behind, and a bit to the right, with Crabbe and Goyle behind you. Yes, that's right. Now, come. I wish to go to the library."

* * *

_Father,_

_Your plan has worked. Potter agreed instantly. I await your instruction._

_Your son,_

**_Draco Malfoy_**

* * *

_Author's Notes_: Chapter 2 should be out sometime around Christmas, and Chapter 3 will take quite a bit longer. Constructive criticism is _always_ welcome.

Beta-read by the wise and beautiful **Tris-WannaBe**, who is no longer my Beta but deserves your praise anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy was a bigoted, swaggering, no-good brat. He had no sense of common decency, and his idea of "good fun" involved several Muggleborn students getting blamed for something that they had not done. He had never done a day of work in his life, and used Crabbe and Goyle to solve any physical problems that might possibly arise.

He was also a brilliant student, but in Harry's opinion, the bad qualities far outdistanced the goods. He sighed and wondered why on Earth he'd ever agreed to be Malfoy's bodyguard.

Discontented as he was, he could not ignore the fact that the other Slytherins had, in fact, ceased to glare at him when they thought he hadn't noticed, and had begun to act a bit more... neutral. None had yet shown any signs of amiability, and judging from their behavior, Harry did not expect any of them to make any overtures of friendship anytime soon.

On the other hand, most if not all of Harry's waking moments were spent catering to Malfoy's needs. What little time he did have was spent mostly in the library, searching for mention of the 'You-Know-Who' person that everyone expected him to know about. So far, he'd found several vague references in the history books, but nothing solid.

He shelved the book that he had just finished leafing through, and sighed to himself softly. Nothing there– maybe he was looking in the wrong section? But this was the general history section– it had to be in here somewhere.

"Hullo there. Do you need any help?"

Harry glanced up in annoyance, ready to snap at whoever had annoyed him. It was a buck-toothed bushy-haired first year girl. A Gryffindor.

The Gryffindors had taken to mostly glaring at him, and he'd caught several whispers of 'Dark Lord' but nothing more. The Hufflepuffs seemed to be scared of him, and the Ravenclaws had apparently come up with several theories as to why Harry had been sorted into Slytherin, and none of them were very flattering.

_What is _wrong_ with this school?_ he wondered, his anger dissipating suddenly. _They're all as bad as Snape and the Dursleys, all ready to judge me before they even know me._

"Go 'way," he mumbled at the girl. With any hope, she'd leave him alone so he could continue to search the shelves.

"But what are you looking for? Maybe I can help. I've read most of these books already, so I know what's in each one, so if you tell me what you're looking for, maybe I can help you find it!"

This was all said in a very fast and bossy manner. Harry gave her an incredulous glance. "Do you always talk so much?"

She flushed, and muttered an apology. "Sorry. I'm Hermione Granger, who're you?"

"Harry Potter."

"Really!" she said. "I've read all about you–"

"Where?" he asked. Maybe this particular Gryffindor was good for something after all...

"You're in _Modern Magical History _and_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts _and_Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."

"Thanks," he said. That would explain why he hadn't found anything yet– he hadn't seen those particular books yet.

"Of course. Why do you want to know?" Hermione Granger asked, looking at him curiously. "I mean, if I were you, I'd have looked up everything I could find _ages_ ago."

"Well, I'm not you, am I?" he asked rhetorically, located the last of the three books she had mentioned, and lugged them over to a nearby table.

"Well, no, but–"

"Leave me alone," he snapped. If she would just leave him alone for a second, maybe he would actually get some work done...

"Have you read–"

"No."

"Would you like to–"

"No."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want to find out why–"

"No," she snapped. "Why do you keep interrupting me? I never did anything to you! You know what? It's people like you who–"

"Potter," came Draco Malfoy's drawl. "Shut the Mudblood up and get over here. I have need of you."

Harry stood, shutting his books, and went to check them out. Malfoy followed behind him, obviously annoyed.

"Potter," said Malfoy, "I don't want you talking to that Mudblood again. At all. It makes me look bad."

Harry glanced over at the blond. "Why?"

"Because she's a Gryffindor and she's a Mudblood, and Malfoys don't speak with trash like that. And since you're under my protection, you don't either."

"Fine," Harry said with ill grace. First Granger had wasted his free time, and now Malfoy got to choose who he was allowed to talk to. Could the day get any worse?

There was a muffled cry and a thump as a book hit the ground. Apparently Granger had heard everything that had been said about her.

"Come on," Malfoy said, and he looked vaguely triumphant, though Harry couldn't exactly say why. "I saw one of the Hufflepuff Mudbloods in the hall– this could be fun."

Harry sent a sympathetic glance at the stacks of books behind which the Gryffindor was hiding, but Malfoy caught it.

"Potter!" he snapped. "Follow directions!"

Harry nodded and followed Malfoy obediently out the door.

* * *

It was drizzling lightly outside, a sight reflected in the ceiling of the Great Hall. Harry took his customary seat at Malfoy's left, and proceeded to murder two pieces of toast before Malfoy stood.

"Come along," Malfoy said, as though speaking to a particularly unintelligent dog. "We're leaving."

Harry knew better than to ask why, and the blond answered the unspoken question as they walked through the mostly-empty halls. Most of the students were still eating breakfast; it was nearly a half-hour before classes were to begin. Crabbe and Goyle's heavy footsteps echoed loudly in the corridors.

"I want to get to Potions early," Malfoy said, and Harry reigned in the urge to groan aloud. He had forgotten it was Friday. Harry fized his gaze on the uneven stones of the floor as he walked, trying not to show his trepidation.

How, oh, how could he have forgotten it was Friday? He did not have any of his materials with him; although the cauldrons and ingredients were provided, the students were expected to bring materials to take notes. Not to mention the essay that was due today...

But there was no chance for him to head back to the Slytherin Common Rooms, as they reached the classroom. Once outside the door, Harry rallied his courage. "Draco, I–"

"What is it _now_, Potter?" Malfoy snapped, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Nothing," Harry managed, his courage sinking into the pit that was the bottom of his stomach.

"Whatever," Malfoy said, and turned back to the door. "Well? Come on!"

Harry entered with no small measure of trepidation. There was no conceivable reason for Malfoy to want to get to Potions early, unless there was a chance for him to wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting Gryffindors. He noticed immediately the head of frizzy brown hair bent over an enormous text in the corner of the room; his mind supplied the name Hermione Granger.

Harry was drawn from his thoughts by the sight of Malfoy's cruel smirk. Malfoy stalked over to the oblivious girl, Crabbe and Goyle following him like so many trained gorillas.

"Mudblood," Malfoy drawled.

Granger's head shot up; in her surprise, she dropped her textbook on the floor. She reddened slightly and bent to pick it up, but Malfoy was faster. He stepped on a corner of the book just as she was about to retrieve it. Granger looked up in surprise.

"Excuse me," she said politely.

"I'm sorry, Mudblood, what did you say?"

"Please let go of my book," the girl pleaded, and tears glittered at the corners of her eyes. Her only response was another smirk.

Harry stood to one side uncomfortably as Malfoy taunted the Gryffindor. Ever so often, Granger's eyes would flick over to Harry, as if asking for help. Harry did nothing.

He thought he understood now how the children at his primary school must have felt when watching Dudley beat him up; he could not look away. How many times had he been in that exact position, wishing that someone would help him! But he did not dare.

It was with some relief that he heard footsteps in the corridor outside; he whispered a quick warning to Malfoy, and the four Slytherins were on their side of the room in time to see the rest of the Gryffindors arrive for class. Some of them looked suspiciously at the Slytherins, Ron Weasley in particular.

The Slytherins arrived not a half-moment later, and took their customary places, and Professor Snape not ten minutes after that. Harry took note of the calculating glances that Malfoy shot him during class, but thought nothing of it.

They headed off to lunch after potions. Surprisingly, Malfoy insisted on being the first person out the door, instead of taking his time as he normally did. Harry followed with no small amount of trepidation; the blond was acting strangely, and nothing good could come of this.

Harry's instincts proved to be correct. Malfoy stopped just outside of the Great Hall, and motioned for Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle to wait. Harry had no choice to ask what was going on; a moment later, Hermione Granger turned the corner, and froze upon seeing them.

Malfoy smirked, while Crabbe and Goyle moved to block all possible exits. Harry stood, frozen, berating himself for being such a coward.

Hermione looked around at the Slytherins surrounding her, and tears filled her eyes. "Why are you picking on me?" she pleaded tearfully. "What did I ever do to you?"

"Easy, Mudblood," Malfoy sneered. "You were born. Filthy mudbloods like you shouldn't be allowed to learn magic. Isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth, and steeled himself against Hermione's anguished face. "Yeah..." he said, and added "Mudblood," as an afterthought.

Malfoy looked satisfied at last, and he was about to taunt Hermione again when the rest of the Gryffindors turned the corner, and stopped at seeing one of their own surrounded by Slytherins.

"Hey," said Ron Weasley, who had elected himself spokesperson. "What's going on, here?"

"Nothing, Weasel," Malfoy said condescendingly. "Just having a chat with the Mudblood here, that's all."

Harry didn't miss the way Ron's eyes flicked to Hermione's tearstained face, then to the Slytherins. "Oh yeah?" the redheaded boy asked belligerently. "Well, I'll–"

Longbottom tugged on Ron's arm. "Come on, Ron. Don't fight. You'll get us in trouble..."

Ron frowned, but acquiesced ill-naturedly. "Fine," he groused, then called, "Oi, Granger, you coming?"

Hermione's face lit up, and she hurried forward, accidentally smacking Harry with her bag in her haste to get away. Harry made a surprised noise and fell backwards, glasses knocked askew. Ron even had the nerve to laugh at him as the Gryffindors walked away.

Malfoy turned to Harry, the satisfied look still apparent. "Well, Potter? Aren't you going to get up?"

Harry lifted himself up off of the floor, and looked around in vain for his bag. He remembered suddenly that he'd left it in the Potions classroom, and as much as he hated to return to the classroom, he needed his materials.

"Draco..." Harry started, and swallowed nervously as Malfoy's eyes narrowed at him expectantly. "I think I left my bag back in Potions..."

"Well?" Malfoy snapped. "Go get it! Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Harry scurried away in relief, ignoring Malfoy's parting shouts. It irked him to take orders from the blond, but he had no real choice in the matter.

He could not help but wonder, as he trudged through the monotonous stone corridors of the dungeon, what life could have been like had he stood up for Granger. Perhaps she would have been his friend. She was certainly smart enough to be an asset to him, and her bossiness was nothing compared to Malfoy's controlling tendencies.

Harry was not too far lost in his thoughts to not hear the voices up ahead. He attempted to rein in his curiosity, but to no avail. He looked up and down the hallway, realizing belatedly exactly where he was. He was in the dungeons, and up a bit and to the right was the open door to Snape's office. He crept closer, careful not to make any noises.

"...tormenting Miss Granger," Snape was saying, and Harry froze. "He called her a Mudblood, if I am not mistaken. Now do you understand what I have been trying to tell you?"

"Now, Severus, isn't it possible that you are exaggerating the situation slightly? Surely young Harry would not have–"

"Please, Albus," Snape's voice sounded strained. "Don't you have faith in my ability to do my own job? I am not exaggerating. I was there; I saw it with my own eyes. He's just like his father, Albus, I've told you before–"

That was enough for Harry, who crept away as quietly as he could. Thoughts whirled unpleasantly around his head, and his mouth was suddenly very dry. He made his way to the Potions classroom, gathered up his books from where someone had scattered them over the floor, and was back in the Great Hall in time to grab a sandwich before Malfoy once again demanded his complete attention.

* * *

Harry got used to the routine quickly enough. The schedule was easy enough, once memorized: breakfast, then class. There was a short break, then another class, then lunch and another break. Depending on the day, Harry had either one or two classes in the afternoon. On Fridays, he had the entire afternoon free.

The thick parchment and antique quills were a more difficult adjustment; Harry's grades improved dramatically once he learned to write without splashing ink all over his essays. Professor Snape especially seemed to delight in taking off as many points as possible for even the smallest of smudges. Over time, however, Harry was pleased to note that the number of points docked was decreasing as a steady rate.

Defense Against the Dark Arts looked to be one of the most interesting classes, at first. However, it soon became clear that Professor Quirrel was a joke. His obvious speech impediment did nothing to ingratiate the turban-clad man to Draco Malfoy, who spent class periods holding court in the back of the classroom. Harry would have paid attention had Malfoy not demanded that Harry pay more attention to the blond.

"After all," Malfoy explained haughtily, "you're my bodyguard, remember? That means you've got to listen to everything I say. And the words of a Malfoy are much more important than that anything that fraud is talking about."

Harry would have enjoyed Transfiguration and Charms if he hadn't been delayed that first week of school; he was more than a week behind, because even with the theory stuck firmly into his mind, he was proving to be nearly useless at spellwork. None of the teachers had approached him about any sort of tutoring, and he was not yet desperate enough to ask for it.

Herbology was interesting enough, he supposed, but years of weeding Aunt Petunia's garden had left him with a distaste for the activity. Thus, the hours spent in the greenhouses tending to various plants reminded him far too much of home, and he endured it in silence.

History of Magic was a disappointing surprise: Professor Binns, an absentminded ghost, took no notice of the class. It was, however, one of the few periods of time during which Malfoy left Harry to his own devices, and Harry spent the time reading through the books he'd borrowed from the library.

One of the first things he discovered was the truth surrounding his parents' deaths. It shocked him at first to learn that they had been murdered by a Dark Lord, but the more he thought over it, the more sense it made. Even more disconcerting was the realization that he was famous in this world.

Harry realized then that he knew nothing of the wizarding world, besides what little information he could glean from his schoolbooks. There were rules he had to follow, like the rules that Malfoy had created for him. And in order to survive, he had to learn those rules.

This initiative lasted until he got to the library in a rare moment of peace. Looking around, he realized that he had no idea of where to start. There were books on wizarding law, though they were too advanced for him to make sense of. There were history books, but those were alternately boring and lacking in useful information. Harry found theory books on every subject, but those did nothing to help him.

By the time Malfoy came searching for him, Harry was tired and disappointed, and his mood did not improve at seeing the blond's excitement.

"Did you see?" Draco drawled, with what passed as enthusiasm for the aloof Pureblood. "We're having flying lessons next Thursday, with the Gryffindors."

* * *

Malfoy had spent the entire week alternately boasting about his prowess on a broomstick and complaining about how first-years were not allowed to join the house Quidditch teams. By the time Thursday morning rolled around, Harry was heartily sick of hearing Malfoy talk.

Harry followed Malfoy down to the Great Hall for breakfast, alert despite the hour. The excitement that had permeated the mood for the last week had gotten to him as well; Harry was eager to see what flying was like.

As the quartet passed the Gryffindor table, Malfoy paused suddenly to grab what appeared to be a glass marble out of Neville Longbottom's hand. The Slytherins stopped walking, as several Gryffindors shot up at once.

Harry braced himself for the worst as the tension in the air became nearly unbearable. Thankfully, though, Professor McGonagall chose that moment to walk past. "Is there a problem, boys?" she asked haughtily.

Malfoy blushed an unbecoming shade of red, and dropped the marble back on the Gryffindor table. "No ma'am," he muttered, and slunk off towards the Slytherin table. Harry kept an eye on the Gryffindors as he followed.

Flying took place in the afternoon, after the Slytherins had been let out of Charms class. Harry lagged behind a bit as they approached the field. The Gryffindors were already there, eyeing the school brooms and talking nervously.

Malfoy sniffed contemptuously. "Do they truly expect us to ride these ancient things? They probably can't even fly! At the Manor, you know, my father..."

Harry was the only one to notice the dirty glare Madam Hooch shot Malfoy as she arrived. She was a short woman with cropped grey hair and hawklike yellow eyes. "What are you all waiting for?" she barked at them irritably. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Malfoy eyed his broomstick with distaste, and Harry eyed his with worry. The aging broomstick had flaking paint, and its twigs stuck out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch instructed, "and say 'Up!'"

There was a low chorus of 'Up!'s, but only a few brooms obeyed their commands. Harry and Malfoy were among the few Slytherins that had gotten it the first time; some of the Gryffindors couldn't manage it at all.

Madam Hooch then demonstrated how to mount their broomsticks without sliding off the end, and walked around correcting them. She passed over Harry without a word, but told Malfoy that he'd been doing it wrong for years.

"The nerve of that woman," Malfoy muttered as several of the Gryffindors laughed. "When my father hears about this..."

His threat went nearly unheard as Madam Hooch ordered them to lift off. "Now when I blow my whistle, you kick off hard. Go up a few feet, then come straight back down. Ready? One, two–"

She hadn't even gotten a chance to blow her whistle when one of the Gryffindors, panicked, kicked off prematurely and began to rise above the class. He rose higher and higher, his pale face just barely visible, until he slid off of the broom and fell to the earth with a thud and a nasty crack.

Malfoy watched with some amusement as the Gryffindor was led off to the Hospital Wing. No sooner was Madam Hooch out of earshot then he burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in, while the Gryffindors glared.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped one of the Gryffindors, a girl who had a twin in Ravenclaw.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, smirking. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Patil."

"Look!" Malfoy lunged forward, and snatched something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The marble glittered in the sun as he held it up.

The Slytherins laughed appreciatively. "Throw it in a tree, Draco," Pansy suggested. "That'll show the crybaby."

"You can't do that," Ron snapped at them.

"Oh yeah?" Malfoy asked, and was about to throw the marble as far as he could when Madam Hooch returned suddenly.

"All right then," she snapped. "Let's try this again, shall we? On the count of three–"

Malfoy scowled, and slipped the marble in one of his pockets. As they flew around in lazy circles over the field, he took a short detour, flying off stealthily when Madam Hooch's back was turned. When he returned, his face was flushed with excitement, and his eyes glittered maliciously. "Threw it in the lake," he confided breathlessly to the other Slytherins, who gathered hear him upon noticing his return. "I'd like to see Longbottom get it back now, eh?"

Harry joined in the laughter this time, though it sounded forced, and he felt Malfoy's eyes on him throughout the rest of the class.

* * *

Harry had hardly been seated at the Slytherin table for dinner for five minutes when he heard hushed whispers from behind him.

"Come on, Neville, you can do this– he stole it, remember?"

Harry nudged Draco, and they both turned around to see Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom standing behind them. "What do you want?" Malfoy sneered.

Neville squeaked, and hid his face. Ron frowned, and said, "Neville's Remembrall, Malfoy. What'd you do with it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Malfoy said with an expression of faux-innocence. "I had it in my pocket, you know, but accidents happen, and it might've fallen into a tree..."

Neville let out a choked sort of sob, and Ron turned an unhealthy shade of puce. "I challenge you!" he said heatedly.

Malfoy raised an aristocratic eyebrow. "A wizard's duel, Weasley? I didn't think you had it in you."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Ron snapped. "Neville's my second, who's yours?"

Malfoy sized up his companions. "Crabbe," he decided. "Midnight, all right? We'll meet up in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."

"Fine," Ron snarled, and left, Neville trailing miserably behind him.

Malfoy laughed suddenly, as soon as they were out of earshot. "The idiot, can you believe it? He actually believed me!"

"So you're not going, then?" asked Harry, who wasn't clear on what was going on. What was a wizard's duel? Seconds? There were so many things he didn't know...

"Of course not," Malfoy scoffed. "What are you, insane? I'm going to tell Filch, and they'll get in trouble for behind out past curfew."

True to his word, Malfoy went straight to Filch's office after dinner. Filch glared at Harry in warning as Malfoy fed him a story about how he'd heard that some Gryffindors were planning on defacing the trophy room at midnight.

After being assured that Filch would catch the perpetrators, Malfoy left the room cheerfully. However, Filch caught Harry's arm as he was about to leave.

"I'm watching you, boy," the caretaker hissed, and Harry flinched as spittle struck his cheek. He wrenched his arm away, and ran to catch up with Malfoy.

* * *

Perhaps it was the stress of classes along with his struggles to make his way through this strange new world he had found himself caught up in, but Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he'd been at Hogwarts for two months. His classes had gotten no better, and Harry lagged further and further behind his classmates as they moved past the basics.

He awoke on Halloween morning to the scent of baking pumpkin. Malfoy sniffed the air haughtily, and announced to anyone who would listen that the preparations at Malfoy Manor were far superior.

However, the Halloween spirit had not deserted the rest of the school. Even Professor McGonagall took pity on them, and let them practice for a day instead of learning anything new. By the time dinnertime rolled around, Harry's own spirits had lifted enough to nearly make him forget about all of his worries.

Malfoy's professed superiority deserted him the moment they entered the Great Hall for the Halloween feast; he gawked at the decorations like the rest of the stunned first-years, before regaining control of his senses and moving stiffly towards the Slytherin table.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The normal candles that adorned the ceiling of the great hall had been replaced with carved jack'o'lanterns that changed expressions every few minutes. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, just as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Harry was helping himself to a baked potato while listening to Malfoy drone on when Professor Quirrel came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and a terrified expression adorning his face. Everyone turned to stare as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and rasped out, "Troll– in the dungeons– thought you ought to know."

Pandemonium ensued as the Professor fell to the floor in a dead faint. It took several orange and purple firecrackers erupting from the tip of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Harry moved as if to stand, and Malfoy caught his arm. "Potter," he said urgently. "It's your turn now, got that?"

Harry blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Don't be daft, Potter!" Malfoy exclaimed, and punched at Harry's arm. "The troll is in the dungeons– it could be near our common room for all we know! So now it's your turn."

"My turn to what?" Harry asked again, frowning.

"Protect me, of course!" Malfoy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That was the deal, remember? I help you, you protect me. So..."

"Right," Harry said, and looked around. "We'll follow the Prefects, then. You stay right behind them, so if the troll comes up ahead, they can deal with it. I'll follow you and make sure it doesn't attack from behind."

"Of course," Malfoy said, as if he'd thought of the plan himself. "Well? What are you waiting for?" He set off at such a pace that Harry nearly had to dash to catch up with him.

They followed the Prefects through the twisting, labyrinthine tunnels. Harry kept an eye out, but he wasn't sure what he should have been looking for. What did a troll look like? And if he did see one, how exactly was he supposed to fight it?

Malfoy did not seem to be worried at all, and kept up a running commentary all the way back to the common room.

"A troll!" Malfoy exclaimed more than once. "Father will be so angry, when he hears about this! He's always said that the defenses have been far too lax..." When no one seemed to pay him any attention, he changed the topic quickly. "A troll could be dangerous, you know... wouldn't it be funny if it killed one of the Mudbloods?"

Harry was too busy looking around to answer back, but the other Slytherins had no such reservations. The conversation lasted the entire journey back to the common room, and by the time Harry collapsed onto his bead, he was too physically and mentally tired to do anything but fall into a deep sleep.

* * *

Malfoy's predictions proved to be correct, as the quartet found out the next morning when they went down to breakfast.

"Did you hear?" Pansy Parkinson asked excitedly. "The troll in the dungeons– it actually killed one of the Mudbloods!"

Draco looked up in interest. "Which one?" he asked gleefully.

"Granger," Pansy said. "But she was just asking for it, really, acting like she was so much smarter than her betters... I suppose this'll show her that some wizards really are better than others."

Draco nodded sagely. "If she couldn't even handle a simple troll, what right does she have to be here?"

Harry said nothing, but picked at his toast. He remembered the last words he'd ever said to the Gryffindor: he'd called her a Mudblood and taunted her. He felt a peculiar sort of twisting feeling inside, but ignored it as best he could.

"D'you know what's even better?" Pansy asked maliciously, and continued on anyway: "I heard some of the Gryffindors talking, they said that it was Weasley's fault."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"They say," Pansy confided to them, "that he was mocking her– no surprise, really– and she went off to the bathrooms to cry, and no one told her about the troll... Isn't that right, Weasley?" she called out to Ron, who was passing by the Slytherin table. Ron flinched, but made no reply, and Pansy laughed derisively.

There was no more chance at conversation, as the morning post had arrived. Malfoy got his usual carton of sweets, and Theodore Nott, another Slytherin first-year, managed to grab a copy of the Daily Prophet from one of the upper-years.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed in surprise.

Malfoy quickly snatched the newspaper from the other boy's hand, and began reading it out loudly so that the entire Great Hall could hear. "Hogwarts First-Year Mauled by Troll: Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, was attacked by a murderous beast last night while returning to her common room in Gryffindor tower. The other students escaped unscathed, but Miss Granger was badly injured. She remains now in St Mungo's and her fate cannot be determined at this time..."

That was too much for Ron Weasley, who stood quickly enough to knock the two neighboring students over, and rushed out of the Great Hall as fast as his legs could take him. Neville Longbottom followed at a slightly slower pace, while doing his best to consume a piece of toast.

Harry joined in on the derisive laughter, but began to eat his toast with more gusto. Relief suffused through his body, and he did not protest when Malfoy announced that he wanted to leave early and see if they could catch Weasley in the halls before classes began.

* * *

Christmas's approach was noted mainly because of the cooling weather. There had still been no word on Granger's condition, and the incident had mostly slipped from everyone's mind. Malfoy spent his time boasting about all the parties his family would be hosting, and how he felt sorry for anyone whose family did not have enough money to host parties of their own.

This was aimed mostly at Ron Weasley, who blushed an unsightly shade of puce when he first heard it, but it reminded Harry for the first time of his time at the Dursleys, and his plans to be free of them once and for all. He resolved to talk to the Headmaster once the holidays had started; he did not want Malfoy or the other Slytherins to know about his home situation.

Harry stood at the window watching the horseless carriages pull away until they resembled mere ants on the horizon. Then he turned to face the empty common room, and sighed. As much as he didn't like his housemates, the room looked depressingly empty without them.

Soon, though, the realization that Malfoy was finally gone came upon him, and he smiled widely in exultation. His steps were jaunty as he headed up to the library to check out some of the books he'd been eyeing for the last months, and the following hours were spent in one of the more comfortable armchairs nearest the fire, reading.

By the second day, however, the novelty had worn off. Only a few other Slytherins had decided to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, and Harry didn't feel comfortable approaching any of them. He took to wandering the halls, searching for secret passages and dodging the caretaker and his mangy cat.

On the third day, however, he finally remembered the Dursleys, and resolved to talk to the Headmaster about them. His thoughts were initially rather depressed, but after his leisurely walk to the Headmaster's office, he had cheered considerably. After all, if all went well, he'd never have to return to the Dursleys again.

Harry had only been standing in front of the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office for a few minutes before it unexpectedly began to move. He jumped out of the way, and was surprised to see Professor Dumbledore headed towards him.

The Headmaster smiled at him. "Ah, Harry, what brings you here? Surely there are more pleasurable pastimes for a bright young lad like you to engage in...?"

Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot, and found that his confidence had deserted him. "I– Well, you see, Headmaster, I... well, I..."

Professor Dumbledore was unfazed by his stutters, and instead motioned for Harry to follow him. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable in my office, then?"

Harry nodded gratefully, and spent the short walk up the circular stairs working to control his nerves. Once they had reached their destination, and the Headmaster was seated comfortably behind his desk, Harry began.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he began formally, wanting to make a good impression, "would it be at all possible for me to remain at Hogwarts over the summers?"

A flash of indescribable emotion swept over the Headmaster's face; it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and the Professor instead looked at him quizzically. "Harry, my boy, why would you want to do a thing like that?"

This was not a question that Harry wanted to answer. "Please, sir, but I'd like to stay here. I'd do anything– I could work, if you needed me..."

Some part of his desperation may have shone through, because the Headmaster smiled gently at him. "I'm afraid I can't do anything for you if I don't know what is the matter, my dear boy."

"I–" Harry paused, looked down at the floor. His fists clenched and unclenched. He decided to tell the Headmaster everything. "I don't want to go back to the Dursleys, sir."

Professor Dumbledore frowned. "What could possibly be wrong with your Aunt and Uncle, Harry? I was not aware that there were any problems."

"It's just–" Harry took a deep breath, and began again. "It's just that I don't want to go back to them, that's all. Please, sir. It doesn't matter where I go, as long as I don't have to go back there."

"Harry." The emotion in the Headmaster's voice caused Harry to look up, into the Professor's twinkling blue eyes. "What is wrong? Are the Dursleys mistreating you?"

_How could he know? _Harry contained his shock carefully, and admitted in a whisper, "Yes, sir."

"How so?"

"They– they make me do all sorts of chores, sir. And they never get me anything new..."

"I see." The Headmaster's frown cleared up, and was replaced by a weary expression. "I'm afraid, Harry, that those are not ground for mistreatment. Now, if you are worried, I can write a letter to your Aunt and Uncle to clear some things up..."

Harry nodded, but was not satisfied. "Headmaster, please understand..."

The Headmaster merely shook his head, then smiled merrily and held out a tin in one wizened hand. "Lemon drops? No? Well, then, why don't you run along, Harry, and I will see what I can do."

Harry did his best to smile back. "Thank you, sir."

As he descended the stair, however, his smile quickly changed back into a frown. He had not gotten what he had wanted, true, but a letter was better than nothing, right?

For some reason, however, he could not quite ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Author's Note: Chapter two is a mere 14 pages instead of 20, though I do hope you'll not count that against me. As I warned previously, the third Chapter will be rather delayed. 


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